The faint hum of the VR capsule filled the room like a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting.
It was a soft, rhythmic thrum that might have been comforting to some, like the whisper of machinery promising escape.
To Aron, it was a reminder of countless failures — each note a tolling bell marking the hours, the weeks, the months he had spent preparing for this single night.
Neon light from the sprawling cityscape of Year 2562 bled through the towering glass windows of his penthouse, painting the white marble floors in shifting hues of blue and crimson.
Outside, the city pulsed with life: flying cars zipped through the crowded skyways, weaving between holographic billboards that stretched hundreds of feet high, advertising synthetic foods, luxury VR vacations, cybernetic enhancements, and drugs that promised eternal youth.
Inside, the penthouse was silent.
The kind of silence that felt heavy, like it was pressing against Aron's chest.
He sat at the edge of his VR capsule, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if in prayer.
His black hair clung damply to his forehead, strands matted with sweat.
His usually sharp blue eyes were bloodshot, ringed with dark circles like bruises carved into his pale skin.
Aron wasn't just tired.
He was consumed.
Tonight would decide everything.
He looked at the capsule's polished chrome surface and saw his reflection staring back — not the image of a wealthy young man at the peak of society, but of someone teetering on the edge of obsession.
The reflection seemed to mock him, whispering doubts he couldn't silence.
His lips parted, his voice hoarse and low.
"Let's end this…" he whispered, breath trembling.
"…once and for all."
The words barely carried past his lips, but in the silence of the room, they felt deafening.
He slowly rose to his feet, letting his gaze drift across the room — a sanctuary of both achievement and emptiness.
A pristine white desk sat against the far wall, holding his Quantum Macbook, the latest model most people would never even dream of touching.
Beside it, a triple holographic display streamed endless data: in-game analytics on the left, live global stock market fluctuations on the right, and in the center… a frozen frame of his greatest failure — the silhouette that had killed him a year ago.
A custom-built gaming rig hummed softly, its neon liquid cooling tubes glowing like veins beneath clear glass, cycling through shades of red and violet.
On the opposite wall, a series of sleek black shelves displayed his trophies: golden statuettes from international trading competitions, shining cups from Fosters Lukers tournaments, even a rare platinum badge encased in crystal — a symbol of his rise to fame.
And at the center of it all, like an altar, was the VR capsule.
Sleek and black, trimmed with silver, its curved glass top reflected the ambient neon light like the surface of dark water.
Wisps of cold mist leaked from its seams, swirling briefly before dissipating into the room's cool air.
For most, it would have been paradise.
For Aron, it was simply a gateway to the only battlefield that mattered.
He reached out, fingers hovering over the activation pad.
His chest tightened, a suffocating weight pressing down on him.
As his fingertips brushed the smooth surface, the memories clawed back to the surface — fragments of his life that had led him here.
He closed his eyes, and the past came rushing in like a tidal wave.
The sterile stench of bleach.
Dim fluorescent lights flickering overhead.
Rows of narrow bunk beds crammed into a cold, gray room where children's laughter and tears blended into a chaotic echo.
A much younger Aron sat alone on one of those bunks, knees drawn tightly to his chest.
His clothes were threadbare, his shoes mismatched, his small hands clenched white-knuckled.
Even then, his blue eyes were sharp — too sharp for someone so young — calculating and untrusting.
Around him, other children whispered and giggled, forming small clusters as they spoke of hopeful dreams:
"Maybe my real mom will come for me."
"I heard a rich family's visiting next week!"
"We'll get out of here together, you'll see!"
Aron didn't join them.
He stared through the cracked window at the dark New York night beyond, his breath fogging the cold glass.
"No one's coming for me," he murmured to himself, barely audible.
His voice trembled, but the words were resolute.
"So… I'll just have to make my own way."
That was the night something inside him hardened.
He would never depend on anyone else.
Never.
Teenage years
The scene shifted to a bustling, chaotic classroom.
Teenagers laughed, argued, and whispered while teachers struggled to maintain order.
Desks were covered in graffiti and cheap holographic stickers, the air thick with the smell of sweat and synthetic cafeteria food.
In the far back corner, sixteen-year-old Aron sat with perfect stillness.
His battered notebook was open, covered in handwritten formulas and intricate trading strategies.
While the others joked or scrolled on their devices, Aron's pen moved ceaselessly.
Two bullies passed by, smirking.
One of them slapped at Aron's notebook, trying to knock it away.
But Aron, without even glancing up, shifted his hand just enough that the notebook slid out of reach.
The bully's hand missed, and he stumbled forward with a curse.
Aron didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
He simply kept writing, his face expressionless.
The other teens eventually gave up bothering him.
They couldn't get a reaction, and that was worse than anger.
Rain fell in shimmering sheets, blurring the city lights into streaks of color.
Graduation night.
Students celebrated with families and friends, laughter echoing under the fireworks above.
Aron walked alone through the wet streets, the cheap soles of his worn sneakers slapping against the pavement.
His head was bowed, his hands jammed into the pockets of his thin jacket.
"This city doesn't care about me," he muttered bitterly, watching as a limousine swept past, spraying water onto the sidewalk.
"So why should I care about it?"
His reflection stared back at him from a puddle — hollow, determined, and utterly empty.
* * *
At seventeen, Aron scraped together $1,000 from odd jobs and late-night hustles.
He sat in a cramped apartment lit by a single flickering bulb, his secondhand tablet balanced on his knees.
The glow of the stock market interface painted his face in pale blue light.
He placed his first trade.
A gamble.
By dawn, his $1,000 had become $500.
Most would have quit.
Aron didn't.
Six months later, that $500 had become $50,000.
From there, the numbers exploded:
$50,000 → $250,000
$250,000 → $1 million
$1 million → $2 million
$2 million → $10 million
By eighteen, Aron was a self-made millionaire.
The world called him a genius.
News sites praised him.
Young traders idolized him.
But Aron's gaze remained hollow.
Money solved problems, yes.
But it didn't fill the yawning void inside him.
Then, one night, he stumbled across a game called Fosters Lukers.
The first time he logged in, his breath caught in his throat.
He stood at the base of a colossal tower that seemed to pierce the very heavens.
Its stone surface was alive with glowing runes, shifting and writhing like serpents beneath the surface.
The tower stretched so high that its peak vanished into the clouds.
A single message appeared before his eyes:
[ Welcome, Challenger. ]
[ The 'Tower of Xorex' awaits. ]
A thrill like nothing he'd ever felt before surged through him.
"If I climb this tower…" he whispered, heart racing.
"…maybe I'll finally feel alive."
Aron's rise was nothing short of legendary.
Floor 10: Ruthless goblin tribes/ monsters of every kinds— he wiped them out with flawless tactics.
Floor 25: Mechanical beasts in a cybernetic wasteland — he turned their own systems against them.
Floor 50: A sprawling cyberpunk city ruled by rogue AIs, every street a death trap.
Floor 75: A shifting labyrinth of illusions that tried to break his mind.
Floor 90+: Monsters so powerful they defied comprehension.
Each victory was streamed, analyzed, celebrated.
Clips of his battles went viral across the world.
The name Aron became legend.
And finally, he reached the top.
[ Player: Aron – Floor 99 (The Unbroken) ]
The throne room was a vast chamber of black stone and glowing symbols.
At its center sat a throne of solid night, and upon it rested the silhouette — a swirling, ever-shifting figure of darkness with two crimson eyes.
"So, one of them got here, huh?" it said smoothly.
Aron's breath caught.
He narrowed his eyes with confusion.
"What the hell are you?!" he demanded.
"Merely… the end."
With a roar, Aron unleashed his ultimate skill — 'Singularity Dot.'
Twin black holes condensed into tiny spheres formed above his blades, pulsing with destructive power.
He hurled them forward.
The silhouette moved.
A single flicker of black light —
—and Aron's head was severed before he even registered the attack.
Darkness.
Notifications flared.
[ The player has failed to defeat the final boss. ]
[ Player 'Aron' will restart from Level 0. ]
[ All stats, skills, and equipment have been erased. ]
"NO!" Aron screamed in his capsule, fists pounding the glass.
"I'll climb again! I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do!"
Back to the Present
A year of grinding.
A year of blood and rage and pain.
And now, he was ready.
Aron slid into the capsule, pressing his palm to the activation pad.
"Fosters Lukers," he growled, voice steady and cold.
"Let's see who breaks first."
The capsule sealed shut with a hiss.
The throne room stretched before him, identical to that night a year ago.
Silent.
Cold.
Unchanging.
The silhouette sat lazily on its throne, one hand supporting its chin.
Its crimson eyes glowed faintly as it spoke.
"Back again, are we?" it purred.
"Persistent little creature."
Aron's teeth clenched.
"This time," he said, blades humming with power, "I win."
He lunged forward.
The battle exploded into motion.
Aron darted left, spinning his blades in a whirling arc. The silhouette's form blurred, avoiding each strike with impossible grace.
It countered with tendrils of black energy, slashing through the floor and walls like liquid void.
Aron leaped over one tendril, planting his foot against the ceiling, and launched downward with a roar.
"DRAGON'S RIFT!"
Flames erupted from his blades, tearing the chamber apart.
The silhouette merely tilted its head.
"Cute."
Its hand flicked.
The attack unraveled, collapsing into harmless sparks.
Aron's breath came ragged now, sweat pouring down his face.
"Fine," he snarled.
"You wanted everything? Here it is!"
His blades crossed, runes glowing.
Twin points of utter darkness formed between them — Singularity Dots, each the size of a coin yet containing the gravity of a dying star.
The entire room warped around them.
Stone cracked.
The air screamed.
"ERASE!" Aron bellowed, hurling both dots forward.
The silhouette rose to its feet for the first time.
The black dots struck.
A blinding implosion shook the throne room, ripping matter and energy apart, collapsing reality itself into nothingness.
When the light faded, half the chamber was gone.
Aron fell to one knee, gasping, his blades shaking in his grip.
The silhouette stepped forward — completely unharmed.
"No," Aron whispered. "That's… impossible…"
The figure smiled.
"Pathetic."
A single flicker of black light.
Aron's world spun — and then his head struck the cold stone floor.
Darkness.
A soft chime echoed in the void.
[ Congratulations! You have achieved the impossible ]
[ You have climbed the 100th floor of the Xorex Tower for the 2nd time ]
[ The system of 'Fosters Lukers' has granted you a gift ]
[ Processing the gift..... ]
Aron's eyes snapped open.
"…What…?"
He expected the familiar comfort of his capsule.
Instead, his back pressed against cracked stone slick with blood.
The air was heavy, metallic, filled with the stench of ash and iron.
Above him, a crimson sky churned with storm clouds.
"No…" his voice broke.
"This… this isn't VR."
The ground beneath his palms felt real.
Too real.
His pulse skyrocketed.
Terror gripped him.
The system screen pulsed again, floating before his eyes.
[ Processing complete. ]
"What did you do to me?!" he screamed at the empty air.
The screen flickered once more.
And everything went black.
The silence that followed was absolute, leaving only the image burned into memory:
A lone young man standing in a world that shouldn't exist.
The final boss waiting somewhere above.
And a system that promised only danger.